HER GRACE.
THE next day at noon, which was the time appointed by Mistress Curtis,
my aunt and I presented ourselves at the great new mansion which the
Duke of Suffolk had built for himself in Southwarke, over against
the church of St. George. This house came afterward into the king's
possession, and is now used as a mint for the coinage of money. I had
passed the house more than once and admired its ornaments, little
thinking that I should ever live there.
The porter was at the door, and seemed to have been expecting us, for
he called another man, who led us up the great stairway, and through a
grand gallery all hung with weapons, bright armor and pictures, to a
parlor, where Mistress Curtis met us and conducted us without delay to
the withdrawing-room of the duchess. The room was a small one, but so
beautiful with silken hangings, Turkish rugs and other ornaments, that
it was like a casket prepared for some precious jewel; and wonderful,
indeed, was the jewel it enshrined.
"Good morrow to you, Mistress Davis," said a sweet voice; "so, my good
Curtis tells me, you have purveyed me a gentlewoman who is quite a
paragon."
"No paragon, an' it please your Grace, but a well-bred and discreet
young lady," answered Mistress Davis, modestly yet without servility.
"So much the better; I shall not be afraid of her. Look up, maiden, and
let me see you."
I raised my eyes to the lady's face as I spoke, and it is no
exaggeration to say that I was dazzled. She was always lovely to
the last day of her life, but at that time, her beauty was simply
wonderful. Knowing her mother to have been a Spanish lady, I had
expected to see some one with black hair and an olive skin. Instead of
that, the Duchess was most brilliantly fair, with a complexion of such
clearness as to show the delicate blue veins about her temples, while
her hair, which was straight and surprisingly abundant, was of the
loveliest paly gold. I have since learned that this brilliant fairness
belongs to certain very noble families in Spain, and they are extremely
proud of it as showing their pure Gothic descent. The eyes were of a
violet blue, large and well opened; the mouth firm in outline, with a
host of dimples dancing in and out whenever she smiled.
She was very kind and even playful in her manner, yet not so as
to invite any unbecoming freedom. She questioned me about my
accomplishments, but said kindly that she would not ask me to sing,
as it would hardly be a fair trial. Then she asked me why I wished to
leave my present home, and I told her—because I would fain earn my own
living instead of hanging on the hands of Master Davis.
"I am afraid you are a phœnix, after all," said she, laughing merrily,
"and yet I could wish there were more of your kind. How is it, Mistress
Davis, that you have not found a husband for this child."
"So please your grace, Loveday might have had a husband had she so
chosen, but her mind was not to take him, and beside that, we had no
authority to do so; neither my husband nor myself would force a young
maid's inclinations in such a matter. I have seen too much of that in
my day."
(This was true, though I forgot to mention it in the proper place. A
good merchant with quite a family of children had proposed for me, but
I had no mind for him. Marry, an' I could have taken the children and
the house, without the man, I would have liked it well enough!)
"I think you are right," said the Duchess. "As you say, it is done far
too often. Well, my maiden, I am well pleased with your appearance and
with all that I hear of you. When can you come to me?"
I told her I knew of nothing to hinder my coming at once.
"Very well; my good Curtis will instruct you in your duties, and see
that you are provided with fitting apparel."
"Not so, please your Grace," said Mistress Davis. "I must beg the
privilege of myself purveying Loveday's wardrobe on her first going
forth into the world."
"As you please, good dame," said the Duchess; "only let her come as
soon as possible. Curtis, will you provide some refreshment for your
friends and settle every thing needful with them."
We made our obeisance and withdrew to Mistress Curtis's own apartment,
where we found a collation already provided.
Now that the thing was done, I must needs confess that I was rather
scared, and began to wish that I had followed my first plan of setting
up a little school. I had never associated with great ladies, save
indeed in the convent, where rank was not much considered. I began
to wonder how I should ever find my way about these long galleries
and staircases, and whether I should ever feel at home with my new
mistress. However, I reflected that, after all, these fine things were
but passing shows, and the people I should have to deal with were men
and women, and—what was most comforting—that the best Help and Shelter
of all would be with me as much in these grand halls as in my room at
Master Davis's, and by dint of such reflections and lifting up my heart
in prayer, I was prepared to hear and understand when Mistress Curtis
was ready to talk with me about my duties.
These were simple enough. I found that I was required to take my turn
with the other gentlewomen in attending upon her Grace in her chamber
and helping her to dress, to stand behind her chair at mealtimes and
when her Grace received or went into company, and, above all, to
entertain my mistress with reading and music whenever she was inclined.
"I think you will agree with the other waiting gentlewoman, Mistress
Emily Mandeville, very well," said Mistress Curtis. "She is a good
creature, and wholly devoted to her lady. As to the rest of the
household, you will have little to do with them. You will have your
own room, to which you may retire when off duty, and you will share
this parlor with myself and Mistress Mandeville. I need not tell you
that you are expected, when in her Grace's apartment, to hear all and
say nothing, and I trust you need no warning against gossiping and
repeating conversation out of the house."
"I trust not, indeed, madam!" I answered, feeling my cheeks grow hot
at the very idea that such a caution was needful. "I am not likely
to tattle, seeing I know no one in London but Mistress Davis and her
family, who are not likely to tempt me to such baseness."
"Nay, be not so warm!" said Mistress Curtis, smiling. "There was no
accusation in my words, only a warning, which is quite a different
matter."
"I ask pardon, madam!" I answered, feeling ashamed of my hastiness.
"Quickness of temper is my failing, but I trust, by God's grace, to
correct it time."
"'Tis half the battle to know one's fault," gently answered Mistress
Curtis; "but yet I counsel you, maiden, to strive with all your might
against it. A hasty temper often does more harm in five minutes than
can be undone by the bitter repentance of a lifetime."
I thought I had too much reason to know that.
"I never thought it so bad a fault as some others—as lying and deceit!"
observed Mistress Davis.
"True, sister. Deceit is to all other faults as the King's Evil *
to other diseases. It infects the whole soul as that the whole body,
blood, flesh and bone, and one never knows when it may break out
or what form it may take. But there is no single fault which, when
indulged, does not drag a chain of other sins along with it. Learn,
then, to rule thy spirit, dear maiden, and so to be greater than he
that taketh a city, as the wise man says. Now, as to a less important
matter, but yet one of weight, especially with young maids—your
clothes!" she added, smiling.
* What we now call scrofula. It was named King's Evil from the fact
that the Kings of England were believed to have the power of curing it.
"If it please you, madam, do you and my Aunt Davis settle that between
you," I answered. "I am sure you will know best."
"Why, so we will. Meantime, you may go into the next room, where you
will find an instrument, some music books, and other volumes with which
you may amuse yourself."
I rose, nothing loth, and passed into the next room; a very pretty one
with an oriel window, and having a lute and virginals * and a pile of
music books, and looking these over I discovered a book of the psalms
in French meter with music attached. I could not forbear trying these
with the spinet, and was so much engaged with them, that I started as
if shot when some one opened the door. I rose in some confusion, when I
found my visitor was a tall, stately gentlemen, splendidly dressed, but
one who would have shown his dignity in any weeds.
* The spinet, clarichord and virginals wore all ancestors of the
piano-forte. See a very interesting article in Macmillan's "English
Magazine" for January, 1884.
"I crave pardon for startling you, fair lady," said he, with a gesture
of courtesy. "I was looking for Mistress Curtis, and hearing your
voice, my curiosity would not be satisfied without seeing the singer.
Pray, good Curtis—" as she entered by the other door—"what fair lady is
this who sings so charmingly?"
Mistress Curtis explained the matter. I had guessed already that I
stood in the presence of the Duke of Suffolk. He heard her to the end,
glancing at me now and then, as I stood withdrawn into the recess of
the window.
"It is well," said he. "I have every reason to trust your discretion,
my good Curtis, and glad I am that my dear wife's love of music should
be so gratified. What did you call the young lady's name?"
"Loveday Corbet, your Grace."
"Corbet—Corbet!" he repeated, musingly. "That is a west country name
and a good old family. Come you from Devon, Mistress Corbet?"
"Yes, your Grace," I answered. "My father was a gentleman of North
Devon, though I believe his father removed to London before he was
born."
"Have you any friends there living at present?"
"None, your Grace, now that my Lady Peckham is dead. Her first husband
was a distant kinsman of my father's."
"Corbet—I have heard the name lately, but I cannot place it," said
he. "Well, my young lady, I trust you may be happy and useful in this
house. Your mistress is a most lovely lady, and easily pleased. Let me
give you a token to hansel your first entrance into my family."
So saying, he placed a gold piece in my hand, and then turned away and
left the room. Such was my first sight of Charles Brandon, the good
Duke of Suffolk, and ever to my mind the very mirror of all knightly
and manly virtues.
I went home in a somewhat dazed and bewildered frame of mind, but once
in the solitude of my own room, I soon composed myself and was ready to
meet Master Hall's jokes and Philippa's bitter gibes on my promotion
with equal serenity. Indeed, however full of fun and merriment Master
Hall might be, he never forgot to be kind. It was not so easy to bear
the children's remonstrances and tears, especially those of my own
little pupil, Helen, a tender, spirited little maid, who had become
very dear to me, but the matter was settled now, and there was no help
for it.
And, indeed, considering the whole affair calmly in my chamber, I did
not wish to help it. I was convinced that I had done right in relieving
Master Davis of my maintenance. I also felt sure of a faithful friend
and counselor in Mistress Curtis. I was charmed with my new master and
mistress, and saw no reason why I need not be happy in serving them. I
had a little my doubts of my companion in waiting, Mistress Mandeville.
I thought she looked prim and formal, but I would not allow myself to
be set against her beforehand.
Yes, I believed I had acted wisely, and was content to leave the result
of my action in the hands of Him whom I had learned to consider my best
friend. I knew I should always have the Davis family and Margaret Hall
to fall back upon, if I needed such support. They had already done
for me more than I could ever repay, were it only in bringing me to a
knowledge of the Scriptures. Margaret, especially, had opened to me a
great new world of thought, which could never be closed again, happen
what might.
Surely God had been very good to me, though for so many years I had
never learned to love Him—never thought of Him if I could help it, and
then only as one to be dreaded and propitiated if possible, and who, if
I only made myself uncomfortable enough, might perhaps be won at least
not utterly to destroy me. Let those testify who know by their own
experience, what a change is made in the life when God's love is shed
abroad in our hearts.
But I must hasten on to my tale. 'Tis the nature of old folk to be
garrulous, and I find I am no exception to the rule, especially when I
have a pen in my hand.
Just a week from my first visit to Suffolk House, I betook myself
thither, accompanied by Mistress Davis, and followed by one of the
men bearing my bundles. My great mail was to come later in the day. I
remember St. George's clock was just striking nine as we passed near
it, and I saw a poor woman, whom I knew at once had been a religious
of some kind, standing under the porch. I had some loose silver in my
pocket, and I could not forbear putting a couple of groats into her
hand. She started and colored, and then thanked me eagerly, and turned
quickly away. In a moment more, we saw her enter a baker's shop close
by.
"Poor thing, did she not look hungry?" said Mistress Davis. "You have
given her one good meal, at all events."
"She is, or rather has been, a religious," said I. "I am sure of it."
"Very like, very like! I must try and speak with her when I come back.
Theirs is a hard fate, poor souls!"
"Yes, they do not all fall into such warm nests as I did!" I could not
help saying, whereat she squeezed my hand lovingly.
I heard afterward that she saw the woman, and finding her clever
with her needle, she got her work that made the poor sister very
comfortable. Helping one out of the hundreds who were in need, was like
helping one fly when hundreds are drowning, yet is it altogether better
for that one fly than if you were to leave him to drown too.
I took leave of my dear Aunt Davis, and certainly I did feel rather
forlorn as I applied to the fat, surly, consequential porter at the
hall-door to be led to Mistress Curtis. However, he was very civil—like
master, like man—and I soon found myself conducted into my own little
room and left to prepare myself to attend my mistress at dinner. It
was by no means as sumptuous as my room at Master Davis his house, but
yet comfortable enough. There was a small bed hung with blue stuff, a
joint-stool, chair and small table with a mirror hung above it. And in
one corner was a sort of cabinet, with drawers, for my clothes. The
window commanded a pleasant view. The maid who attended to help me
unpack my goods, told me that Mistress Mandeville's room was next mine.
"Who is that?" I asked, as an elderly lady, dressed in deep, but old
fashioned, black passed me, giving me a keen glance as she did so.
"That is Mistress Patience. She was a great friend of her Grace's
mother—I have heard say she attended on Queen Katherine, and was left
in great misery after her death, till her Grace found her. She hath
been in clover ever since, but some think she is not quite right in her
mind."
I looked with great interest at the old lady, as she walked to the end
of the gallery, seemingly only for the exercise. As she met and passed
me in returning, she dropped her stick; I picked it up quickly and put
it into her hand, whereat she gave me another keen glance and thanked
me, adding in a clear though trembling voice, and a somewhat foreign
accent:
"You are my new neighbor, I suppose."
"Yes, madam!" I answered.
"Ay. Well, be faithful and you shall have your reward."
I courtesied and followed my guide down the stairs, noting carefully
all the turns, that I might be able to find my way back. Mistress
Curtis greeted me kindly, saying I was just in time to attend my
mistress at dinner. Accordingly, she led me to the duchess her
withdrawing-room, where I found her splendidly dressed and beautiful as
ever.
"So, here is my singing bird!" said she. "We must make trial of your
gifts by and by. Meantime, be you acquainted with Mistress Mandeville,
your companion in service."
Mistress Mandeville courtesied and said something civil. She was of
medium height, with eyes of that sort which seem to have no particular
color, a reasonably good skin and features, and she carried herself
remarkably well. She passed for a model of prudence, propriety, and all
the other good Ps, because she never expressed an opinion of her own,
and, indeed, never talked if she could help it. I lived in the house
with her six months, and did not know her one bit better at the end of
the time than at the beginning. But we never had an unpleasant word,
and I really think she liked me as well as she knew how to like any
body.
We stood behind our lady's chair at the dinner, which was very splendid
and well furnished, with guests of great quality. The Duke entertained
many gentlemen in his household, and the expenses of the table alone
were something fabulous. As I glanced down the long board, I saw at
the lower end a face and figure which seemed at once to take me back
to childish days at Peckham Hall. The dress was that of a priest, but
I could not see the face plainly for a great burly count from the Low
Countries who sat above. The glimpse I had, excited me to a lively
curiosity, and I longed for another, but when I looked again the priest
had left the board.
"Now we shall have our dinner," said Mrs. Mandeville, with some
appearance of interest. (It was the only subject on which she ever did
show any animation.) "I hope they have not eaten up all the sturgeon."
I felt for a moment foolishly humiliated at having to sit down to the
board after others had finished, but I might have spared myself that
mortification, for I found that the ladies and gentlemen attendant
directly upon the Duke and Duchess dined in a chamber by themselves,
and as well as any one at the great board, if they chose. It was a fast
day, and I, who was accustomed to keep the fasts and feasts of the
church, was surprised to see the delicacies which were served to us.
Mistress Curtis presided at the board and kept order, yet was there
abundance of lively conversation among the young gentlemen. Only when
it seemed verging upon too much freedom did Mistress Curtis, smilingly,
call them to order. There were half a dozen pages of noble, or at least
gentle, birth, who were being bred up in the Duke's household, and
instructed in all sorts of manly exercises in the tilt-yard and manege,
besides what book-learning they got with a master entertained for
the purpose. Two or three of these were little lads of an age, as it
seemed, to be under their mothers, and it pleased me to see how these
children came about Mistress Curtis when the meal was done, and how
kindly she spoke to them. One of them had been crying, and, on being
questioned, owned that he had been in difficulties with his tutor on
account of certain pronouns whereof he could by no means understand the
declensions.
"Bring your book to me," I ventured to say, (I knew I had an hour to
myself at this time) "and, with Mistress Curtis's leave, I will see if
I can help you."
"Do so, Roger, since Mistress Corbet is so kind," added Mistress Curtis.
The little fellow—he was no more than seven years old—brightened up and
ran off for his book.
"Law's me, Mistress Corbet, what pleasure can there be in spending your
play-hour over a Latin grammar and a stupid lad?" said Mrs. Mandeville.
"Oh I like teaching, and I remember mine own troubles with these same
declensions," said I; and little Roger returning, I took him into the
window-seat and soon made his way plain for him.
"Thank you, madam," said the child, gratefully. "I wish I might do my
lessons with you every day. Master Sprat is so cross, and when I am
puzzled, he says I could learn if I would—but I can't learn unless I
understand. But he is going away to his now cure—much good may it do
him," said Roger, brightening up, "and perhaps Master Corbet may be
more good-natured."
"Corbet!" said I. "That is my name."
"It is our new master's name, too, and we are to begin with him
to-morrow."
"Then see that you have your task well conned, so as not to shame your
mistress," said I.
He was such a baby that I could not forbear kissing his round, fair
cheek. Then I betook myself to Mistress Curtis's parlor, where I found
her, and also Mistress Mandeville, who was making a kerchief at the
rate of ten stitches a minute, and lifting every one as though she were
prying up stones with a crowbar. It did always make me ache to see her
sew.
"Well and what of your pupil?" asked Mistress Curtis.
"Oh, I have sent him away happy," said I. "'Tis a fine little lad,
though he says his master calls him stupid because he can not learn
what he does not understand."
"I dare say. He is a crabbed, austere man, soured by poverty and hard
study before he came here, and his temper is not sweetened by the
tricks the mischievous lads play on him. But he goes away very soon to
some benefice or other. By the way, the new tutor has the same name as
your own."
"So little Roger tells me," said I. "I had a distant cousin of that
name, my Lady Peckham's son, who went to study for a priest. I wonder
if this could possibly be the same?"
"This young man hath come up to London, as understand, to study the
Hebrew tongue," said Mistress Curtis.
"Dear me, why should he want to learn Hebrew?" asked Mrs. Mandeville.
"He is not a Jew, is he?"
"If he were, he would probably know Hebrew without learning it,"
answered Mistress Curtis. (Somehow Mrs. Mandeville's stupid speeches
always did seem to put her out of temper.) "I suppose he wishes to
study the Scripture in the original tongue."
"Well, I would not like to know so many strange tongues and things. I
should be afraid of being burned for a wizard."
"That would be a waste of faggots, certainly," returned Mistress
Curtis, dryly. "But there is the clock. Young ladies, it is time you
went to your mistress."
Mrs. Mandeville led the way, and I soon found myself behind my lady's
chair in the great withdrawing-room, which was crowded with guests,
both ladies and gentlemen, come to pay their court. The Duchess seemed
to know all, and have a pleasant word for all. The Duke stood near,
now and then addressing a word to his wife, and there was ever that
interchange of loving and familiar glances so pleasant to see between
married people. He was more than old enough to be her father, and,
indeed, she was his fourth wife, his third having been the Princess
Mary of England, the king's sister, and dowager of France. It was on
the occasion of this marriage that he appeared at a tourney in a dress
half of cloth of gold and half of frieze, with this motto:
"Cloth of frieze be not too bold.
Though thou be matched with cloth of gold.
Cloth of gold do not despise
Though thou be matched with cloth of frieze."
It was said all his marriages had been love matches, and I could easily
believe it, for a nobler pattern of a man I never saw. He was the model
of all knightly and gracious exercises in tourney and field, having
gained more than one victory by his prowess, and he was counted equally
wise and discreet in the council hall. He was also a great patron of
the new learning and a protector of those who followed it, nor did he
disdain the more trifling arts of music and painting. I, who at that
time had never seen a good picture, used to spend half my leisure in
looking at those which the duke had brought home from Italy and the Low
Countries.
Of course, I had nothing to do but to stand still and use my eyes and
ears. It was the grand reception-day of the week, and many were the
great people who thronged the splendid rooms. It was not long before I
heard the name of Bishop Gardiner, and I looked with eagerness to see
this man who had held such an influence over my life. In he came, in
his rich churchman's habit, all smiling civility. I believe I should
have hated him at first sight if I had not known who he was. He was
followed by Father Simon, his chaplain, whose viper face I knew in an
instant. He advanced at once to pay his court to the duchess, and no
one bowed lower than he or was more fulsome in his flattery.
"Well, my lord, and how goes on your favorite pursuit?" asked the
Duchess in her ringing voice.
"To what does your grace allude?" asked the bishop.
"Oh, the turning out of nuns and monks. We all know you like to hunt
them as a warrener does rabbits, only your ferrets are learned doctors
and divines."
I saw Father Simon's face darken at this gibe, but the bishop only
smiled.
"'Tis said the chantries are next to go," continued the Duchess, in
the same gay voice. "I much wonder, my lord, what kind of reception
you expect to meet with in Purgatory. Will not the poor souls who are
waiting to be sung out of their pains fall upon him who hath so cruelly
deprived them of their means of escape?"
"Let me remind you, my love, that these are hardly fit subjects for
jesting," said the Duke, gently. "My lord, have you seen his majesty
within a day. His physician, Dr. Butts, tells me he is ill at ease."
Thus he turned the talk into another channel, while my mistress,
though she seemed to pout for a moment, soon recovered her gayety,
and began again chatting on indifferent subjects. As for the bishop,
he never showed one particle of annoyance either at this time or on
other similar occasions. But "what was fristed was not forgotten," as
old ladies used to say, and he made the sweet lady pay dearly for her
gibes: marry, 'twas through no good will of his that she did not atone
for them with her life.
When the company were gone, my mistress bade me sit down to the
instrument and play and sing to divert her and her husband. I did my
best, and her Grace was pleased to praise me very highly, saying that
my voice was one of the finest she had ever heard.
"The voice is not the only beauty," said the Duke. "Mistress Corbet
sings with expression, without which the best voice is 'but as sounding
brass and a tinkling cymbal,' as the apostle says. What other songs do
you know?"
I told him not many, as I had learned in the convent, where we had none
but sacred music. He then bade some one fetch a book of French Psalms
from which I had been playing, and he was pleased to join his voice
with me in some of them.
"These psalms are greatly sung in France," said he. "One hears them
both in palace and cottage. I would some one would do as much for the
psalms in English, that they might replace the ribaldry one hears every
where."
"It may be done some time—who knows?" said the Duchess. "Go you abroad
to-night, my sweet lord?"
"I must needs do so, since the king commands," he answered. "And what
will you do?"
"Stay at home to play with my babes, like a good housewife," said she,
with a smile, "and perhaps to visit poor Mistress Patience, whom I have
not seen for two days."
"I perceived the old lady was not at table."
"No, she is ill at ease, poor soul. I think not she will live long."
"It is hardly to be wished. Good-by, then, sweetheart."
When the duke had gone, his wife rose and bidding us attend her, she
went first to the nursery, where I saw her two little sons, of four and
five years, lovely buds of that noble stem, destined to be blighted
in their earliest bloom by the dreadful sweating sickness. They were
sweet, well-governed children, overjoyed to see their beautiful mother,
and coming with shy grace to speak to me when bade to do so. Presently
the elder boy asked his mother when sister Frances was coming home,
and I then learned for the first time that the duke had an unmarried
daughter by his third wife, Margaret of England, who was now visiting
some lady about the court.
I was in a hurry for supper to come now, hoping I might see in the new
tutor my old friend and playmate, and then telling myself how silly
I was to prepare such a disappointment. But I was not destined to be
disappointed. The Duke being away, the whole family sat down to supper
together, and the very first sight convinced me that Walter Corbet was
before me. He had grown older, of course, and looked thin and worn, but
there was the old expression of peaceful firmness and resolution in his
dark eyes and in the lines of his mouth. I do not think he glanced at
me, till the Duchess addressed some kind word to him, when he looked up
and our eyes met. Even then, he did not recognize me at once, and no
great wonder, as he had not seen me since I was eight years old; yet
his eyes lingered on my face with puzzled expression, which the Duchess
observing, (as she always saw every thing,) said:
"Master Corbet, my new gentlewoman hath the same name as yourself and
comes also from the West Country. It may be you are of kin."
I could not but smile at his look of bewilderment, and seeing he was
still uncertain, I touched with my finger a small but deep scar on my
brow, which I had gotten in one of our childish expeditions after nuts.
"Surely!" said he. "This cannot be my little cousin Loveday, who used
to live at Peckham Hall with my mother?"
"Even so," I answered, as my mistress's eye and smile gave me leave to
speak. "I knew you in a moment; but then you are changed less than I."
"And you are little Loveday," said he, as though he could hardly
believe it even yet.
"Not so very little at present," said the Duchess. "You must make
acquaintance, since you are old friends and kinsfolk."
This was all that passed at that time. The evening was spent in reading
aloud to my mistress and playing of cards, about which I knew nothing
till she taught me, and which I never learned to like. The Duchess, not
being very well, went to bed early, and I waited on her to her chamber
and helped her to undress, as was part of my duty. My service, however,
was not much more than nominal, as she had an old maid-servant who had
attended her since she was a child. She then dismissed me, and I went
to bed, feeling more tired than I had ever done in my life.
Next morning, I was astir in good time. I had been used, of late,
to read a portion in the Bible every morning, and, as the sun shone
pleasantly into the gallery, and my room was something dark, I ventured
to walk up and down there, while reading in St. John's Gospel. I had
not done so long, when a door opened, and the old lady I had heard
called Mistress Patience, put her head out.
"Can I do aught for you, madam?" I asked, seeing her looking as if she
would call somebody.
"Oh, I would not trouble you, Mistress—I forget your name," answered
the old lady. "I was but looking for the woman who helps me to dress; I
am rheumatic, as you see. She is long in coming, I think, or else I am
earlier than my wont."
"It has not yet gone six by the church-bell," said I. "But, Mistress
Patience, please let me help you; I shall love to do so."
"Nay, child, 'tis no office for such as thou—thou a gentlewoman."
"I am a Christian," I answered; "and what should such do but help each
other? Besides, I shall like it. It will remind me of the time when I
used to help dear Sister Sacristine, in the convent. Please allow me."
The old lady consented, and I helped her to dress. She was much
crippled with rheumatism, and I feared hurting her; but I suppose I did
not, for she said I was a deft maid.
"And what book have you there?" said she, as I took up the volume I had
laid on the table.
I told her.
"What, you are an heretic, then?" said she, sharply.
"Nay, madam, why should you think so?" I answered.
"Because you read the Bible, like that snake-in-the-grass that brought
my dear mistress to her doom. Away, I have naught to do with heretics.
They murdered my dear mistress."
"But, dear madam, listen a moment," said I. "Don't you know that both
Luther and Tyndale wrote against the king's divorce of Queen Katherine,
as did many others whom men call heretics? For myself, I do not pretend
to judge of state matters, being nothing but a simple maid, but my
heart hath ever been with your mistress. And you know it was the great
Cardinal who first helped on the matter of the divorce. I have heard
say that the queen herself accused him of blowing the coal betwixt her
and the king."
"So she did, so she did, poor soul!" said the old lady, relenting a
little. "But, oh, my maiden, for your soul's sake, beware of heresy,
and of reading and judging in matters too high for you. It is that
which is drawing down vengeance on this realm."
I soothed her, as well as I could, and, getting her comfortably seated
in her great chair, I fetched my "Imitation," and read to her a few
minutes.
"There is the bell, Mistress Corbet," said she, as a bell rang in the
gallery. "You must go, but you will come again, won't you?"
"Yes, indeed!" said I, venturing to kiss her forehead; whereat she gave
me a smile and her blessing.
As I have said, breakfast was not at that time the serious matter it
has since become. I had been bidden to repair to the small dining-room
for mine, and did so. There, to my great joy, I found Walter, eating
his bread and milk, with a book open by his basin, as he used to do
at the hall. It may be guessed that we found plenty to say to each
other. He told me that the hall was shut up and empty, save for the old
servants who staid to look after it. Sir John Lambert, with whom he
had studied, had gone abroad to save his life, being accused of heresy
and he, himself, had had a narrow escape from the clutches of Father
Barnaby.
"I know not how he let me go, only that he could not find in his heart
to burn so good a Latinist," said he, smiling. "When my kind friend
went abroad, I betook myself to my parish of Coombe Ashton, and there
I have lived till now. But I have left my cure in good hands, and am
come up to London, for a time, to study the Greek and Hebrew to more
advantage. The Duke of Suffolk hath kindly given me a place in his
household, where I hope to serve well both my earthly and Heavenly
Master. But now tell me of yourself. Where have you been, all these
years?"
"'Tis a long tale," said I. "I can only give you the outlines thereof,"
which I did, only saying naught of the cause which sent me from London
to Dartford.
"But, Walter," I added ('twas a wonder to see how easily we went back
to the old names), "how does it happen that you have not heard all
this before? Did you not care enough for your old playmate to ask your
mother about her?"
Walter's face clouded, and I saw that I had touched on a tender chord.
"My mother and myself have seen very little of each other of
late," said he, sadly. "You know she was somewhat arbitrary in
her disposition," (I thought I did, indeed), "and she was greatly
displeased with me for taking up with the new learning, and, as she
said, abetting Sir John in the destroying of souls. She made the
price of her blessing the abandonment of my most dear and inward
convictions of truth, and as I could not comply, she even cast me off
and disinherited me, so far as it was in her power to do so. Think you,
I was wrong not to give way?"
"Whoso loveth his father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me,"
said I.
His face brightened in a moment, and he said, in a low tone:
"Then you, too, are a reader of the Evangel. Where did you learn that?"
I told him, adding, "I do wish you knew the Davis family. They are the
best people in the world."
"I know Master Hall and his wife, at least to speak to," said he. "She
seems, indeed, like a most generous woman, such as the wise man calls a
crown to her husband."
"But did your mother then disinherit you?" I asked.
"So far as it was in her power. Sir Edward left me certain lands which
were not entailed, and a sum of money, and I had a small inheritance
from my own father, so I have more than enough for all my wants—except
books," he added, smiling; then sadly again: "I cared not for the
inheritance, but it was hard to want a mother's last blessing."
"It was, indeed. But what do you here?"
"The duke hath given me a place as master, to teach the young gentlemen
their academe. His grace intimated to me that I might do as much or as
little as I would, but I mean to earn his protection, which is of great
value to me."
The entrance of Mistress Mandeville put an end to our talk for this
time. The day was spent much as the last had been, save that we went
abroad on the river with our mistress. She was fond of the water, and
went out almost every day, and as I liked it also, while as Mistress
Mandeville was terribly afraid of it, I came to be her usual companion
in these expeditions.
Kind as were my master and mistress, and much as I learned to love
them, it was a trying life, and one that I should never covet for a
daughter of mine. It was a fatiguing, and yet an idle, life. Oh, how
my fingers used to ache for something wherewith to busy themselves,
during the hours when I stood by my mistress's chair, and how weary
grew my ears of the endless tittle-tattle of compliment and repartee.
Sometimes, indeed, we had talk which was worth hearing. The Duke
entertained all the great scholars of the day, and I heard many
discussions which made me forget all my weariness and disgust.
One day I had the great pleasure of seeing my old friend, Dr. Hooper,
and my lady, with her usual kindness, hearing that we were acquainted,
made an opportunity for us to talk together. He told me he had seen
Master Davis's family the day before, and that they were all well.
"And you, my daughter, how fares it with you?" he asked, gently. "I do
not mean in health, since your face speaks for itself, but how fares
it with your soul? Do you keep your lamp trimmed and burning in the
midst of all this splendor, and yourself as one who waiteth for the
bridegroom?"
"Indeed, I try to," I answered, feeling the tears very near mine eyes.
"But I do find it hard, many times, to collect my thoughts and keep
them where they should be. My prayers seem forced, and as though they
did not get out of the room."
Dr. Hooper smiled. "They have no need to do so, perhaps, since He to
whom they are addressed is Himself in the room. But tell me, do you at
such times give up and forbear to pray for that time?"
"Sometimes I have done so," I answered, blushing.
"And do you not find prayer and meditation all the harder the next time
for such omissions?" he asked.
I confessed that it was so.
"And so it will ever be," said he. "Believe me, daughter, the times
when we need prayers most is when we enjoy them least. Then is the
time to seek the mercy seat more earnestly than ever, and not to leave
it till we have an answer of peace. Even though your prayers are but
matters of simple obedience, they are of infinite value to your own
soul. Tell me, is there not some charitable work that you can do to
keep the springs of love fresh in your heart?"
I thought of Mistress Patience, whom I had somewhat neglected of late,
excusing myself on the ground of having so little time to myself, and
because she was often fretful and hard to please.
"Yes!" I answered. "I might do such work if I chose—but—the truth is,
Dr. Hooper, in the multitude of business and distractions, I have
forgotten God, and He I fear hath forgotten me."
"Do you not believe that, dear maid," said Dr. Hooper, earnestly. "He
hath not forgotten you, but even now waits for you to return, and holds
open the gate that you may enter. Go you to Him before you sleep, in
penitence and prayer, and having confessed your sins and begged for
pardon and cleansing, believe that you have them, and go on serving
your Heavenly Master to the best of your ability, not expecting thereby
to win salvation, since that has already been purchased for you, but
that you may showy your faith by your works, and set forward the
kingdom of your Master."
This is not a record of religious experience; but I may just say that I
followed the good man's advice, and found peace in so doing.
The next morning, I was up early, and while dressing I tried to think
of some way to make my peace with Mistress Patience, who, I knew, had
felt the loss of those attentions which I had begun by giving her. At
last a plan struck me, which I hastened to put into execution. I found
the old lady dressed, and sitting in her great chair.
"So, Mistress Corbet, I have not seen you for long," said she, drawing
herself up; "but I am nobody now—only a poor old woman whom nobody
cares for. I thought at first you were going to be like a daughter to
me, but I see how it is."
"Now you discourage me," said I, feeling her reproach all the more that
I deserved it. "I had come to ask a great favor, and now I am afraid."
"And what favor may that be?" she asked me, rather suspiciously, but
yet relenting a little, as I thought.
"Even that you will teach me to knit," I answered. "My mistress says
that you know how to knit hosen like those which come from Spain, and
that you taught her mother."
"So I did, so I did," she answered; "and a sweet creature she was. How
well I remember when my Lord Willowby came a suitor for her hand;"
and therewith she went off in a long description of the wedding, and
bedding, and so forth, which kept her amused till it was time for me to
go.
"But you will teach me to knit?" said I, as I rose to leave her.
"That I will, that I will, dear maiden. I will hunt up my knitting-pins
to-day, and will show you the motion, and how to put up the stitches.
Just wheel my chair near to yonder cabinet, if you will, and I will see
what I can find."
And so I left her happy in rummaging her drawers.
The next morning, she had found her pins, and gave me a lesson in
knitting, over which we became quite good friends again. By degrees
she opened her mind to me, and I found out what was the trouble which
embittered her life. It seems that Queen Katherine, in her will,
had provided that some one should make a pilgrimage to our Lady of
Walsingham, for the benefit of her soul. This had never been done, and
the poor, faithful old servant was eating her heart with grief lest her
mistress was still suffering in Purgatory on account of this omission.
"I would gladly have gone myself," said she, "but I had a broken leg;
and now there is no more any holy shrine at Walsingham. Oh, me! Oh,
me! That my poor mistress, who would have gone on foot to Rome to save
the soul of a poor beggar, should suffer for want of such a charity as
that."
She wept, and I could not forbear weeping with her, and trying to
comfort her.
"Dear Mistress Patience," said I; "Queen Katherine was a Christian
woman and trusted in her Saviour, who is all pity and compassion. Think
you he loves her less than you do?"
"No," said she, wonderingly, "I suppose not."
"Would he not love her just as much more than you, as he is greater
than you—that is, infinitely?"
"Yes, belike He does. What then?"
"Then—do not be angry, dear lady—but would He leave her in such a
dreadful place, because some one did not do what was impossible. The
Scripture saith that his blood cleanseth us from all sin. What need
then of any further cleansing?"
She looked doubtfully on me, and I had to leave her at that time; but
the next morning, as I took my knitting, she said, abruptly:
"Mistress Loveday, is what you said yesterday—about cleansing from
sin—is that in the Bible? I mean the true Latin Bible, not that which
the heretics have put forth."
"It is, indeed," I answered.
She sighed. "I wish I could read it," said she; "but I was never good
at Latin, and now my eyes are failed, so I can scarce read English."
"I will read it for you, dear madam," said I. "I have a Latin Bible,
and I will read it into English for you, if you will."
"Do so," she answered.
I fetched my book, and read to her such places as bore on the subject,
as long as I had time. When I was obliged to go away, she laid her
hand on my arm, and fixing her eyes on mine, she said, with touching
earnestness:
"You are a good maid and a fine scholar. You would not deceive me?"
"Not for the whole world," I told her.
"Then tell me—are all these things in the English Bible?"
"They are indeed, dear madam, and much more."
"I would I had one, that I could see for myself," said she.
"Mine is fine print—I fear you could not read it," said I. And then, as
a thought struck me: "My lady hath given me leave to visit my friends
to-day, and I think I may be able to bring you the New Testament in
fair, large print."
Her face brightened, and then fell again. "But that may bring you into
trouble," said she.
"I think not," I answered. "At all events, I will see what can be done."
She consented at last, giving me a gold piece to pay for the book, and
to buy a fairing for myself. As I said, my mistress had given me leave
to go spend the day with my friends, and Mistress Curtis sent one of
the men to attend me to Master Hall's, where I purposed to go first.
I had been used to run back and forth between his house and Master
Davis's, but I was now a lady in a great house, so I must needs have a
blue-coated serving man at my heels.
I found them all well and overjoyed to see me, but methought Master
Hall was more sober than his wont, and Margaret's fair brow had a shade
of care. When: we were alone together, I asked her if any ill fortune
had befallen.
"Nothing as yet," she answered, "but, Loveday, we are living, as it
were, on the edge of a quicksand which may any day open and engulf
us. It hath somehow become known that my husband has been engaged in
the printing and selling of English Bibles, or at least so we think.
We are beset with spies. One of our best workmen, James Wells, hath
disappeared, and we can get no news of him."
"He may have been murdered in some street brawl," said I; "you know
there have been many of late."
"True; and he may have turned informer, perhaps by force of the
rack—who knows? I am glad you came to-day, for nobody knows when we
shall meet again."
She looked about her, went to the door to see that it was fast, and
then whispered in mine ear: "In a week or two, perhaps in a few days,
my husband will go to the Low Countries, and I shall follow him as soon
as I can settle up our matters here."
This was news, indeed, and the worst I had heard for many a day. I
could not forbear weeping over it, and Margaret joined her tears to
mine.
"But we must not spend our last meeting in tears," said she, presently,
drying her eyes. "Tell me, dear maid, how it fares with you and what
you are doing?"
With that, we fell into our old strain of talk, and it was a wonder to
me to see how she seemed to forget her own concerns in mine, when I
told her of Mrs. Patience.
"Alas, poor soul. She shall have what she wants, but not for hire or
reward."
And going to one of the secret recesses, of which the house was full,
she brought forth a fairly printed New Testament and a Psalter.
"Give these to the poor lady and bid her bestow the price in charity,"
said she. "My husband will be only too glad to give the bread of life
to one more perishing soul. But conceal them carefully. I would not
have you brought into jeopardy. Your cousin, Sir Walter, tells me you
are in great favor with your good lady."
"She is, indeed, good—far beyond my deserts," I answered: "I never saw
a sweeter young creature. She hath but one fault, and I sometimes fear
that may bring her into trouble. She cannot refrain her tongue from
any gibe or jest that comes to her. Bishop Gardiner comes often to our
house, and never, I think, without their having an encounter of wits,
in which he is sure to come by the worst. I like not the way he looks
at her, and believe, though he says not a word but of the most honeyed
courtesy, he doth cherish in his heart both anger and revenge."
"It is a pity," said Margaret. "He is a wicked and cruel man—one of the
true Pharisees which Scripture says do shut up the Kingdom of Heaven,
not entering himself nor suffering others to do so. He is a dangerous
enemy."
"I know I would not like him for mine, but I am too insignificant to
draw his notice."
I dined with Margaret, and then we went together to her father's house,
she giving me a caution not to speak of what she had told me about her
husband affairs, specially before Philippa.
"She would surely never betray you," said I, startled.
Margaret shook her head.
"She might not be able to help herself. I trust nobody who goes to
confession."
We found all well, and the children came near eating me up in the
warmth of their welcome. I had brought my knitting, and Mistress Davis
was at once on fire to learn the art, so I taught her as far as it
could be learned in one lesson. I had made a little pair of red hosen
for my pupil Helen, and great was the wonderment over them, for knitted
hose were even mere rare then than now. The only ones ever seen were
brought out of Spain and sold for great prices.
Philippa was in a generous mood, and full of curiosity about my new way
of living. I was willing to gratify her as far as was discreet, but she
wanted to hear more, and began asking me questions about the family.
"They say the Duke and Duchess do not well agree, and that he
reproaches her with her wastefulness and love of dress, even before
visitors," said she.
"Nonsense," I answered. "The Duke is the very mirror and pink of
courtesy to all, and especially to his wife."
"But is she extravagant?" persisted Philippa.
I hardly knew how to answer, for, in truth, I had thought my mistress
more expenseful in her habits than was discreet at all times, even with
such a princely income as the Duke's. Philippa went on, without waiting
for a reply.
"I have heard that her grace never wears the same gown twice, and that
she hath as many sets of jewels as there are days in the year. Is that
true, think you?"
"I don't know; I never counted my mistress's jewels," I answered rather
shortly, for I was vexed and embarrassed. "Take care, dear aunt, you
have dropped a stitch. Let me take it up for you."
"But you must have the chance to see all her fine things," continued
Philippa. "Do you not take care of her jewels?"
"No; she always puts them away herself."
"Is the Lady Frances at home?" was the next question.
"No; she returns next week."
"Folk say she hath the king's temper," observed Philippa. "They say
that she and her step-mother do not agree, and that when the Duchess
cuffed her for her impertinence, she struck back and gave her mother a
black eye. Was that so, think you?"
"I don't believe it. I know nothing about my Lady Frances's relations
with her mother, and if I did, I would not tell it out of the family."
"Why, what harm would it do?" asked Philippa.
"It would be treason to those whose bread she eats, and under whose
protection she lives," said Mistress Davis, with emphasis. "And Loveday
is right to refuse. There can be no greater or baser act of treachery,
than for a servant in any station to tattle of the private concerns of
her employers."
Philippa pouted. "She told the children how the little lord rode his
pony in the tilt-yard."
"That was but child's play," said I, "very different from what you have
asked. How would you like to have some one tell of all that happened in
your family, supposing you had one?"
"Any how, a great many people do it, and think no harm."
"They do harm, whether they think it or not," answered Mistress Davis.
"Many a scandal and shame grows out of such tittle-tattle."
Philippa was silent for awhile, but her curiosity was too lively to
allow her to sulk, as usual, and she presently began to ask me about
the last court fashions, in gowns and headgear. I was willing to do
her a pleasure, though surprised at her interest in such a matter, for
she had always affected a great indifference to dress. I had observed,
indeed, a change in her own attire. She no longer wore her everlasting
black gown, but was becomingly dressed in blue damask; and her veil
and close coif were exchanged for a becoming hood. When she left the
room, I noticed the change to Mistress Davis, who smiled, somewhat
mischievously.
"Yes, she came to me not long since, and, saying she thought it her
duty to submit to my wishes more than she had done, she asked my
counsel about her attire. I have my own ideas about what the change
portends, but I shall say nothing."
Master Davis now coming in, the subject was dropped, and did not come
up again.
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